


Just One More Question

by BelgianReader2, g33kyclassic



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Are not always what they seem, Charles Xavier has a Ph.D in Adorable, Erik Has Feelings, First Impressions, Fluff, M/M, Pub Quiz League
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:01:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26658637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BelgianReader2/pseuds/BelgianReader2, https://archiveofourown.org/users/g33kyclassic/pseuds/g33kyclassic
Summary: Erik meets Charles at Pub Quiz League and it is hate at first sight.  But, his team does need a new member and Moira is insistent that Charles is just what they need.Erik is not happy about Charles, despite his trivia skill.  Can time change his opinion?  What about an unexpected revelation or two?
Relationships: Erik Lehnsherr/Charles Xavier
Comments: 33
Kudos: 147
Collections: 2020 Cherik Bang





	Just One More Question

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has been a long time coming. Thank you to those of you who helped with beta reads (flightinflame and sin_compromiso) and all of you who offered encouragement. 2020 has been been a tough year for writing, but I am happy to be able to say I finally finished this fic - the idea and first couple pages of this concept were written at least 4 years ago!
> 
> Thanks also to BelgianReader2 for her gorgeous art!

* * *

__

* * *

There may be no one Erik hates more than Charles Xavier. That stupid happy grin he always has on his face. The fact that he easily wins over a group of strangers by buying them drinks and seems to have made a set of new friends by the end of the night, something Erik has never done (not that he would want to, he has no interest in making new friends, thank you very much). The way his hair keeps flopping into his eyes and so he’s always brushing it back – just get a haircut, damn it! But worst of all, was his ability to answer every pop culture question, ever. 

He may have only met him for the first time two months ago, but Erik is a hundred percent sure no one is more insufferable than Charles Xavier. Waltzing into pub quiz night, joining whatever team might need him and answering far too many questions right for Erik’s tastes. It is simply not possible the man knows so much about pop culture, British literature and the biological sciences.

Which is why Erik is currently sitting with his local pub quiz team, about to lose to a bunch of acne prone college students and one floppy haired, disgustingly charming, pain-in-Erik’s-ass Brit.

Logically Erik knows that this is a pub quiz league and there are really hardly any stakes (unless a free dinner at the restaurant next door counts) in who wins this year’s title of best quiz team. In fact, his team mates remind him of it frequently. However, Erik has never been one to take things lightly and his quiz team is no exception. He is ruthless: he has excel spreadsheets devoted to how many questions each of his teammates have answered correctly and incorrectly each night, and if people can’t maintain an acceptable average of success, he has no qualms about kicking them off the team. He also analyzes his opposition, which is difficult because line-ups change each year and even from week to week as people move on, or can’t make it, or have random substitutes (like the annoyance with the stupid grin sitting across from him right now) fill in on their teams. The lack of order and consistency grates on his nerves, but Destiny, the quiz organizer and manager of his local pub has repeatedly told him she will not institute a rule that a team’s line-up has to remain consistent for a year because, “That is ridiculous. I run a business here Lehnsherr and I’m not doing anything that will bring fewer people through the door.”

So here he is, wondering for the hundredth time why pop culture is even an acceptable category for pub league questions and hoping that the final question will be something legitimate: a science question, or a math problem, or one of the rare German opera questions he treasures to an extent he will never reveal to a soul.

Perhaps there was someone out there listening to his pleas, because thankfully, the last question of the night, worth a whopping 50 points, is about Russian literature and his teammate Azazel speaks up, with a curt answer almost before the question is even finished. Which pushes Erik’s team ahead of their opponents and Erik can’t help but grin his most satisfied toothy grin at the result.

“Oh stop that!” Moira grumbles beside him, “You look terrifying when you smile like that. And, don’t for a second think that because we won, we are not going to go over there and talk to that British guy.”

Erik’s smile fades immediately at the mention of his current object of hatred.

“I am not talking to him and he is not joining this team,” he hisses.

“We need him and you know it,” Moira replies calmly. “Emma left two months ago and she was our pop culture person. And that guy –“ Moira gestures pointedly, “has just proven that he knows more about pop culture in his little finger than all of our team combined. He named all of the Kardashian kids, in order from oldest to youngest, and knew which ones belonged to which Kardashian sister!”

Moira slinks her arm through Erik’s and pulls him toward the other side of the room. “So we are just going to talk to…whoever he is…”

“Charles,” Erik mutters, unable to stop the name from crossing his lips. “His name is Charles.”

“Charles then. We’ll walk over to Charles and invite him to join our team and then we can go back to our regular pub league domination.”

Moira is, of course, right, as she usually is. Charles and his pop culture knowledge are key to Erik’s team rising to a secure place at the top of the league and very likely winning the annual championship. And despite his hatred of Xavier’s floppy hair and his ridiculous cardigans, Erik is willing to do anything to win the pub quiz league. Including swallowing his pride and talking to Charles Xavier, face to face, for the first time ever.

* * *

Charles watches as the pretty brunette and the striking, lean, panther-like man from the opposing team approach him after the match. He tries to be casual, to look unaffected and uninterested, but he knows he’s not likely successful. His face tends to announce what he’s feeling like a billboard, despite his best efforts to the contrary.

He’s also keenly interested in the perfect specimen headed his way. He shouldn’t be; the man spent most of the quiz scowling at him. Charles has clearly made an impression, but not a good one. Which is just his luck; Charles is never attracted to the right people. His sister has often said he is only capable of being attracted to walking disasters. His tragic dating history supports her hypothesis. But Charles can’t help the part of him that dances as his newest crush walks his way, all lean hips and broad shoulders. He would enjoy that torso, licking every inch of it…

“Hello!” The brunette says cheerily, ending Charles’ inappropriate fantasy. “I’m Moira, and this is Erik. We were really impressed with you tonight, weren’t we Erik?” Moira nudges Erik none to kindly in the ribs.

“Yes.” Erik agrees tersely.

“You truly know your stuff!” Moira says, clearly trying to make up for Erik’s blunt reply by being overly enthusiastic.

Charles finds her rather charming. “Thank you, Moira. You’re very kind. I do love a bit of trivia.”

“Would you like to join our team?” 

Charles turns to look at Erik, wondering if he’s just issued a statement or a question. Erik holds his gaze, as if it’s a competition, and Charles feels his stomach flip in that way it always does when he’s falling just a little bit harder even though he really shouldn’t be.

“Join your team as a regular member?” Charles asks.

“Yes, exactly!” Moira nods.

“We have high standards for all our team members.” Erik informs him. “Arrive ten minutes prior to quiz start time, you may miss two quizzes per season, any more and you will be up for replacement. And in fairness to open and honest communication, you should know that I keep records on all team members.”

“Records?” Charles says, unable to keep a smile off his lips.

Of course the man keeps records. He looked so serious, like he’s forgotten how to smile and instead of being turned off, all Charles wants to do is see if he can make the man laugh because he has this strange feeling it will be incredible.

“Statistics.”

“Such dedication. Your skills in Excel have never been a doubt in my mind.” Charles teases, and as expected, Erik frowns more deeply. 

“Do you want to join us?” Moira asks. “Even with Erik’s conditions?”

“I can think of nothing I’d like more.” Charles grins.

“Well then!” Moira reaches out and shakes his hand. “Welcome to the Factoids!”

__

* * *

“Please name 5 countries that start with the letter…’I’”

Erik scowls at the host and his grating, annoying, overenthusiastic tone. But his scowl quickly turns into a fiercely satisfied grin when Moira sticks her hand into the air and answers.

“Ireland, Iceland, Iran, Iraq and Italy.”

“Right answer! Five points to The Factoids!” The host announces far too cheerily for Erik’s tastes. “Next question, for two points: What is the atomic number and symbol of gold?”

Erik shot his hand in the air: “79 and Au.”

“That is correct! Two more points to The Factoids. You really are running away with this one tonight!”

They are running away with it tonight, already leading 50 to 31. Erik is satisfied. He might be more than satisfied, but he is standing beside Charles and he hates it. The man smells like mint and lemons and he keeps making sly comments to Moira, which make her laugh and keep distracting her from the quiz (though she’s still keeping her percentages high enough that Erik can’t reprimand her). Even Azazel likes Charles. They bonded over a mutual love of Anton Chekhov and the next thing Erik knew the Russian was talking more than Erik had ever heard in the three years he’d known the man. Ridiculous.

Erik wants to be planning a thorough dressing down of the annoying Brit for after the match, but the truth of the matter is, Charles hasn’t answered a question wrong yet. And he has managed to answer every pop culture question that’s come up with ease.

“What unexpected children’s song hit number one on Spotify in 2018?”

Erik notes that Charles’ arm has gone up beside him, once again beating their opponents.

“Baby Shark” Charles answers, a warm smile on his face.

Erik can’t help but give Charles a sideways glance as the host practically squeals in delight. He has no idea what ‘Baby Shark’ is (the mere thought of hearing the song makes him shudder), nor can he understand why a man like Charles, dressed in perfectly pressed pants, a light blue button down shirt and a well fitting suit jacket, should have any idea either.

The rest of the quiz passes by quickly. The Factoids win an embarrassingly lopsided match, Charles continues to win over Moira and Azazel by somehow guessing their favourite celebratory alcoholic beverages (he even guesses Erik’s preference for Guinness) and footing everyone’s bill. 

Erik wishes he could understand it - why is Charles so grating and bothersome? - but he genuinely cannot understand the depth of his own reaction. No one would ever call him a ‘people person’. Erik is a man of few close friends, who detests small talk and has no qualms about walking away from interactions with people with limited intelligence and lacking fundamental moral values. Charles however, is clearly intelligent, has excellent manners, and although Erik can find fault with his idealistic nature, he cannot deny the man has guiding principles in his life and Erik respects that.

So why can’t he bring himself to like the man?

Erik leaves the pub. He’s not proud to admit he takes one last look at Charles, Moira and Azazel at the bar, drinking and laughing, looking like the picture of happiness and good cheer and feeling somehow left out, even though he’s choosing to leave.

The commute home is short and uneventful; the walk to his mother’s house down the street even less so.

“Mama?” Erik calls out, opening the door and heading to the kitchen.

She’s sitting on her back deck, a cup of rich dark coffee cradled in her hands.

“My boy.” Edie smiles. “Did you win tonight?”

“We did.”

“But you are not happy.” Edie says knowingly.

Erik shakes his head. He isn’t unhappy exactly, but he is unsettled. His initial reaction to Charles, the automatic dislike, made sense to him. Now, knowing more about him, the dislike remains, and yet… there’s something about the man. Erik can’t stop watching him. He’s like a puzzle Erik needs to solve, though for the life of him, Erik has no idea why.

“We have a new member.” Erik says, sitting down and gazing out into the deep blue evening sky.

“How exciting! What’s their name?” Edie asks, eyes twinkling.

“Charles.” Erik says, fiddling with his cup.

“And? Did he not do well?”

“His success rates are satisfactory.” Erik replies.

Charles’ success in answering questions correctly was more than satisfactory - in his first night with the team, Charles hadn’t missed a single query. He had been perfect.

“But…?” His mother prods lightly, sipping from her still steaming mug.

“He bothers me.” Erik shifts in his seat. “He doesn’t take things seriously; he jokes with everyone, chit chats between questions, even with the opposition. His clothes are too casual, but also too expensive. His hair is too long and his smell is distracting.” Erik stops abruptly, feeling heat creep into his cheeks.

His mother glances over at him, but then turns her attention back to her coffee and the horizon.

“It has never been easy for you - meeting new people, making new friends.” She says minutes later. “Ever since your father died, you have been a man apart. I have always respected that choice. Maybe, without meaning to, I encouraged it. I have kept you to myself. I have stayed alone, even after all these years. I never put myself out there, never tried to meet another man and find love again. Maybe I should have.”

“Mama, you -” Erik begins to protest, thinking of how many years his mother had devoted to raising him, and her recent fight against breast cancer.

“Shush.” His mother cut him off firmly. “I can’t say I would change anything, not really. I’ve never been ready to move on, but I didn’t mean to teach you to hide yourself away. But this Charles, you should try to get to know him. I think you may find, under the surface, there’s something more to him than expensive clothes and too long hair.”

* * *

Charles rushes forward, as fast as he possibly can in the crowd of people milling about the subway station. Finding himself stuck behind yet another crowd of slow moving tourists, Charles peaks down at his watch and curses.

He’s going to be late. Not actually late, if things go well and he can get past these tourists and jogs to the pub, but ‘Erik Lehnsherr late’. Erik expected all team members to be ten minutes early, preferably half an hour early to all Quiz Nights. Charles knew he’d be lucky to be at the pub five minutes before the quiz started.

Erik was going to shoot daggers out his eyes at him when he arrived.

When people ask, Charles always says he loves his life; he’s satisfied, fulfilled, all the things people want to hear. But there are moments like today when he wishes he was free; free of obligation, free to make his own choices and live his own life. He wishes his schedule, his life, was not so dependent on others.

Today, one of those other people had been unreliable and late. Meaning Charles would also appear unreliable and late.

Stepping into the pub, out of breath and still moving as quickly as he can to find his teammates, Charles catches sight of Moira first. She smiles at him, but looks tense and as Charles’ eyes slide over to her left, he sees Erik, and his deep scowl.

Charles smiles wanely back, hoping against hope for some lenience, but not surprised when Erik’s scowl only deepens. Erik’s rules are clear, and over the past two months, Charles has never never been late, never missed a Quiz Night. Following Erik’s rules has never been an issue. To be honest Charles likes showing up early, sharing a drink with his teammates and chatting.

Charles likes other people. He appreciates how everyone is unique, how everyone has a story to tell and insights to share, he enjoys a good debate, even the occasional squabble.

He even likes Erik; even right now with that scowl on his face. In all honesty, Charles ‘like likes’ Erik, as his students might say. He thinks about him far too often, before he falls asleep at night, when he jerks off in the shower, and those times when his students are impossible and his wishes he could muster an expression even half as intimidating as the glare Erik had given him the first night they’d met.

Charles walks forward, not slowing his pace, accepting his fate, half aroused at the very idea of Erik chastising him: his low gravelly voice, the firm lines of his lips, the flair of passionate anger in his eyes. It will be stunning.

Charles stops directly in front of Erik, his stomach fluttering.

“I’d like to apologise for being a bit late. Everything was going well, but then -”

“I’m not interested in hearing your excuses - no matter how well rehearsed they may be.” Erik cuts him off, turning around and showing Charles his back.

Charles is left with his mouth agape, looking like a fish and feeling more than a little disappointed he didn’t get the heated argument he was hoping for.

Erik keeps it up all night. Hardly looking at Charles, giving Moira approving nods when she answers correctly and Azazel manly pats on the back, while Charles gets no reaction whatsoever.

It pisses him off. It pisses him off royally.

So Charles does something he knows he shouldn’t. But he can’t help but rise to Erik’s baiting, so he needles him right back. He starts shooting his hand up in the air for every question he knows Erik would usually answer - any hint of math, or engineering, or physics. He makes it his goal to beat Erik to any answer possible. 

It’s ridiculous and petty and Charles knows it, but doesn’t care. He knows the answers after all, he’s not putting the team at any risk of losing, he’s just… needling Erik a bit.

Judging by the tension in Erik’s jaw, the colour creeping up his neck and the fact that Charles can hear his teeth grinding together, he’s doing an excellent job being a bother.

The game ends, and much to Charles’ disappointment, Erik disappears without so much as a glare. Charles can’t help the way his stomach churns and his shoulders drop. He wanted a fight. He wanted a reaction. He wanted to be face to face with Erik, emotions high, words flying. Verbal foreplay. Passion.

He wanted to see the chinks in Erik’s armour. 

Instead, he’s driven the man away and possibly ruined any chance of expanding their relationship into something more. He can almost hear Raven’s voice calling him hopeless even though she was half a world away.

“You really messed him up.” 

Charles turns to see Moira standing, holding two beers, one of which she offers to him.

“Do you happen to know my sister?” He asks jokingly. “She would have said something quite similar - though with much more colourful language and more heavy handed insults.”

“I’m an honest woman.” Moira smiles. “But I do have some tact.”

“Thank you.” Charles nods. “For the beer and the tact. You’re right, of course. I was a thorn in his side all night long. And for nothing other than petty reasons. If you have any idea where he’s gone off to, I really should apologize.”

“He left. Went right out the front door and out into the rain.”

“Was I a complete twat?” Charles says with a wince.

“You get more British when you feel guilty.” Moira smirks. “You were bad.” Moira concedes. “But not that bad. He’s probably going to see his mother. He looks in on her a lot.”

“Oh, I hope she’s not taken ill again.” Charles frowns.

“She’s been sick?” Moira asks.

“She had cancer, but she’s been in remission the past two years.” Charles replies, feeling troubled.

“How do you know that?” Moira says, clearly surprised. “Lehnsherr does not talk about his personal life.”

“Perhaps not directly.” Charles agrees. “But he talks around it. He always answers quiz questions related to cancer treatment. I asked him about it one night after the quiz was done and he explained. Apparently if you ask direct questions; he answers.”

“You are a ballsy man, Charles Xavier. A risk taker.” Moira salutes him with her glass. “And don’t think I’ll forget it, no matter how well you try to hide it.”

“I’ll take that as a complement.” Charles winked.

He stayed at the pub a while longer, chatting with Moira, making her laugh and enjoying another drink.

When the designated hour arrived, much like Cinderella, Charles knew he had to leave and return home. He didn’t have to worry about his carriage turning into a pumpkin, but the consequences he would face if he didn’t make it home in good time were equally dire.

He made it home five minutes before he’d promised and sank down onto the couch. Somehow, he had to extend a hand to Erik and repair the fissure he’d created tonight. 

If he could only figure out how.

* * *

Erik stares down at the basket in his hands and gives his head a shake before he opens the door to his mother’s house.

“Mama?” He calls. 

“In the kitchen.” Edie’s replies.

Erik heads to the back of the house; the kitchen is his mother’s sanctuary. Despite her ill health over the past five years, she still spends hours baking and cooking every week. Her challah and soups feed dozens of people, people who seldom get to eat a well cooked meal, every week at the synagogue. 

“I have something for you.” Erik says as he steps into the room, setting the almost overflowing basket down on the table.

“For me?” Edie smiles, her cheeks flushing. “What is the occasion, my boy?”

“It’s… there is no occasion, it’s not from me.” Erik shrugs helplessly. “One of my pub quiz team mates sent it to me. At work.”

And hadn’t that been embarrassing, accepting the huge basket from his nosy personal assistant who had stared at him with eager eyes. Erik was sure she’d run to spread gossip about some sort of secret admirer as soon as she’d left his office.

“Your team mate sent you a basket of … jams, oils and chutneys?” Edie questions with a smile. “How thoughtful. These will go so well with my breads.”

Erik wants to groan, but holds it in. His mother is right. Everything is the basket is perfect; thoughtfully picked out, clearly specifically chosen, possibly even personally wrapped. How exactly is he supposed to maintain his righteous anger at his nemesis, when Charles does things like this?

The basket is just so… thoughtful. And personal. It was as if Charles had taken every tiny bit of information about Erik he had gleaned over the past few months and made a gift basket to suit Erik alone - actually Erik and his mother, as if Charles knew Erik would want to share things with his mother.

How did Xavier, the man Erik is almost sure he hates more than anyone else, manage it? How did he know? Was it possible that he wasn’t a self absorbed rich boy? Had he actually been listening when Erik and the other team members spoke? Did he actually care?

“He confuses me.” 

“Your friend?” Edie prompts.

“He’s not my friend.” Erik replies automatically. 

“Sending a basket - a gift - is something friends do, yes?” His mother says, her brow arching upward.

“I’ve been… harsh to him.” Erik admits. “And yet, he sent this basket.”

The basket may have been an apology for Charles’ poor behaviour, but it made Erik think more of his own: all the times he had dismissed Charles as flighty and too charming and not given him credit for his intelligence, the times he had scowled as Charles drank with the opposing team after a match and yet never thanked him when he offered up tidbits about their opponents they could use for their next match. He had been unfair and willingly blind. He’d wanted to dislike Charles - a man who was everything he wasn’t - so he had nitpicked and found every fault he could.

“Then you apologize.” His mother’s words interrupt his cascading thoughts. 

Apologize. Simple as that. Of course his mother could make it seem so simple. Unfortunately, Erik didn’t exactly have a great amount of experience with apologies. It seems he was going to have to start with a huge apology for his attitude to one Charles Xavier.

__

* * *

Erik admits he has been living in a blissful state of enforced ignorance until the last quiz night of the year. As he does every year, Erik is avoiding all thoughts about, or activities related to, Christmas.

Except, of course, the last quiz night of the year, held in December, is always Christmas themed, and even though he hates Christmas, Erik refuses to miss quiz night.

The night is horrible on multiple counts. Firstly, Charles has brought crackers for the whole team (and their opponents) to open and insists they all wear the paper crowns and Erik feels terribly silly and those feelings of hating Charles and his easy laugh come back with a vengeance. Secondly, Erik is not particularly knowledgeable about Christmas trivia, and he refuses to spend extra time listening to Christmas carols, and learning about odd Christian traditions, even with quiz results on the line. Thirdly, Erik knows he should apologize to Charles, he intends to apologize to Charles, but with the Christmas theme, the silly crowns, the bright red Christmas themed cocktails, the words just won’t come out.

Somehow he makes it through the night; the rounds of red and green drinks, the impromptu Christmas carols, the handful of obligatory quiz questions related to Hanukkah and Kwanzaa that he answers readily.

He’s sitting by himself, in the only spot left in the pub that can be described as a ‘quiet corner’, when Charles finds him again. Erik watches apprehensively as Charles slides into the seat next to him. He has no idea what to expect; this is the first time they’ve been alone since their rather epic disagreement last week.

“I know your secret.” Erik’s stomach sinks at the sight of Charles’ sly grin.

Erik bites down hard to stop himself from gaping like a fish, unable to respond, until Charles punches his arm lightly and he pulls back and scowls.

“That hardly seems likely.” Erik grumbles.

“You -” Charles points at him with a giddy, half-drunken grin, “like something about Christmas.”

“I do not.”

“You don’t like this?” Charles asks, his face the picture of innocence as he places a carton of eggnog down on the bar in front of Erik.

“Where did you get that?” Erik asks, swiping the carton from in front of Charles.

“Does it matter?” Charles shrugs. “You want some, don’t you? I have it on good authority you adore this stuff - an opinion I happen to approve of greatly. I thought we might share.”

“You want to drink eggnog with me?” Erik questions. “I thought you were drinking candy cane martinis with our opponents?”

“I bought our opponents candy cane martinis.” Charles chided. “I, contrary to your assumptions, have not had a drop of alcohol. I have simply been assisting others to embibe.”

“Nothing?” Erik arches a brow.

“Nothing. I do generally enjoy a pint, but I have a packed schedule tomorrow, so eggnog is, therefore, my drink of choice.”

Erik stands and reaches over the bar to grab glasses. He pours for both of them, filling the glasses so full the liquid almost reaches the top lip. Charles’ smile widens and his eyes sparkle, and for a moment Erik wonders if it’s all true. Maybe Charles really does like eggnog. Maybe he really is just a very nice person with no ulterior motives - a one in a million these days. Maybe the odd feeling in Erik’s chest whenever he sees Charles isn’t hate, maybe it’s something else entirely, something driven by the depth of Charles’ blue eyes, the warmth of his laugh, the intelligence behind his easy smile.

Maybe Erik should stop thinking.

“Bottoms up.”

* * *

It’s Christmas. Christmas - the most wonderful time of the year.

Maybe the most wonderful time of year for other people, but not Charles. Never Charles.

He has had years of horrible Christmases. If there was some sort of competition for the worst Christmas on record, Charles is rather certain he could make the top ten.

This year, just like last year, he vowed things would be different.

Except, despite his best efforts, everything is still horrible, just in a new way. The new horror this year is a fever. And projectile vomit. And a curious and concerning rash.

Charles rushes up and down the aisles of the drugstore, half cursing, half praying with every step. How hard could it possibly be to find one over the counter medication? He just needs one. 

This is the fifth drugstore Charles has run through tonight. The fifth. He’s miles away from home, exhausted, and his nerves are frayed. He’s honestly not sure how much longer he can hold on.

Giving up on this store and its inadequate selection, Charles charges out the store.

In keeping with his terrible luck in the past twenty four hours, he runs right into Erik Lehnsherr.

* * *

The Christmas season is truly in full swing. It is in fact, the night before Christmas. 

Usually, Erik would be content to sit himself in his mother’s living room, avoiding everything and everyone, and eating a ridiculous combination of Chinese take-out and his mother’s freshly made challah.

He’s too restless to stay inside tonight. There are still too many thoughts and emotions swirling in his head to possibly sit peacefully beside his mother and sit through yet another viewing of My Fair Lady, his mother’s favourite movie.

Besides, even now on the cold winter streets of New York, he can’t help but think about Henry Higgins and his upper crust British accent and how much more he enjoys listening to Charles in real life, as opposed to Henry Higgins on a screen. He imagines it might be quite amusing to hear Charles say ‘The rain in Spain falls mainly in the plain’ if given the chance.

And that is exactly why he left. So the cold could clear his head. So the bustling of last minute shoppers could piss him off to such an extreme that he would forget all about Charles Xavier and all the confusing, conflicting emotions Erik felt when he thought about him.

It wasn’t working, not even a little. Charles was still there; in his mind. Odd thoughts of what Charles might be doing for Christmas, or whether he liked turkey with all the fixings, or whether he was waiting to open a pile of ornate Christmas presents tomorrow just kept flashing through his mind. 

How fancy was Christmas in the Xavier household? Did they exchange Cartier watches and monogrammed pocket squares? Or maybe tickets to the hottest show on Broadway and backstage passes at the Met? Perhaps Tiffany earrings for the ladies, or the latest designer gowns, straight from the runways in Paris?

They probably eat at a giant table that seats twenty. They definitely eat a meal cooked by a professional chef, not a family member. They probably bring in a string quartet or a professional pianist to play carols after dinner.

Erik can’t quite imagine what Charles would think of his childhood, filled with intimate Hanukkah celebrations, simple homemade meals, and trips to the synagogue. There had never been much in the way of luxury in his life, not that Erik would ever complain about something so trivial. He’d had everything he needed - they may not have had much money, but his mother had always provided what he needed, all enveloped in the strength of a mother’s love.

Maybe his past explains why Erik doesn’t like Christmas; all the materialism, the flashy colours, the forced happiness.

Still, Erik likes how the cold is creeping into his fingers, his nose, his cheeks. The bite of it reminds him that though he hates Christmas, he still loves winter. The cold, the snow, the way a cold wind hits the face and every breath hurts your lungs - he loves it all. Winter is a cleansing.

Erik wants to be cleansed; cleansed of his obsession over Charles.

Just as the cold of the weather and his annoyance over the hoards of people cramming the streets in search of last minute gifts takes over, when he feels something close to serenity, he is almost knocked off his feet when someone careens into him.

“Sorry, sorry.” The offending person says, stumbling back.

Erik would know that voice anywhere, but it takes him a moment to process the sight in front of him. Because Charles is right there in front of him, but Erik can’t take his eyes off the bundle in his arms: a child. Charles is holding a child.

“Charles?” Erik stutters out, still not quite sure how Charles is standing in front of him with a toddler in his arms.

“Erik!” Charles replies. “I am so very sorry. I’m just… I’m in quite a rush. My son is sick and I can’t seem to find the medicine I need. His stomach is very sensitive, he has trouble keeping things down at the best of times, and he’s been ill these past few days…” Charles peters off, shaking his head.

“What do you need?” Erik asks, immediately fixated on the most important part of Charles’ ramblings, and pushing any questions he wants to ask about how Charles has a child, that he’s a father, to the back of his mind.

“There’s this no-dye, no artificial flavouring children’s ibuprofen that I just can’t seem to find. I’ve been to five places tonight… ”

“Come with me.” Erik says confidently. “My mother goes to a little place a few blocks away - they have everything. Always. They serve mostly Jewish women and live in fear of their wrath.”

Erik tries a smile, hoping his attempt at humour might relieve some of Charles’ tension. As if sensing his discomfort, the toddler in Charles arms raises his head, gives him one look, and begins crying with a force that shocks Erik to his core. How can someone so small be so powerful?

“We’ll hurry.” Erik declares, eyes going wide as the wails continue. “It’s not far.”

Erik leads the way through the crowds of people, using his broad shoulders to his advantage and pushing his way through bodies. Still, they keep getting separated in the throngs of people. Erik stops until Charles catches up, and wraps an arm around Charles’ shoulder, tucking the smaller man into his body.

“Okay?” He asks. “I don’t want to lose you again.”

“Yes, yes, of course. Thank you.” Charles nods and he bounces the bundle in his arms, his eyes looking around desperately.

“Just a couple more blocks.” Erik assures him.

Erik moves as fast as he can, letting his stride eat up the pavement, while keeping Charles and his son close. Stepping into the relative quiet of the drugstore is a relief, and as Charles steps into a corner to rock and whisper into his son’s ear, Erik can only imagine how he must be feeling.

Erik locks eyes with Charles for a moment, before rushing to the back of the store in search of Mrs. Appelbaum, the pharmacist who has been manning the back counter since Erik was in diapers. After a few hasty exchanges, and a frantic search down the aisle of children’s medicine, Erik has what he’s looking for. Paying for it is easy, and Erik is back at Charles’ side, slightly out of breath but still triumphant.

“They have it.” He holds up the bottle and when Charles smiles at him, a smile of pure relief and gratefulness, he can’t stop the way his stomach drops and flips.

Charles gives his son a dose right then and there. Given how his son quiets and his eyelids flutter as he lays his small head on Charles’ shoulder, Charles’s fatherly instincts are clearly excellent.

Erik watches Charles’ body sag in relief. 

“I could carry him for you…” Erik lets his offer hang and waits, not wanting to overstep, but he’s honestly a bit worried Charles is going to keel over.

“We have quite a way to go…” Charles frowns.

“I’ll call an Uber.” Erik pulls out his phone and hits dial before Charles can even open his mouth to protest. 

Charles looks ready to argue when Erik hangs up, but Erik shakes his head firmly.

“You’re exhausted. Don’t even think about saying no.” Erik scowls.

Charles’ son moves in his arms and saves Erik from having a heated discussion with Charles in public. Charles’ focus is now completely on his son, shushing him, rocking him, kissing his forehead. It is a side of the man Erik would never have guessed existed.

To think of how many nights he’d fumed over Charles, thinking him irresponsible, flighty, and shallow, the one night he had spent at least twenty minutes thinking less of Charles because he had a stain on his shirt; when in reality he was tackling the hardest job of all.

They slip into the Uber as quietly as they can. Erik can’t help but overhear Charles as he gives the driver his address; it surprises him to realize it isn’t too far away. Another assumption - of Charles living in a penthouse in the Upper East Side - blown away.

Instead, the drive heads not far off, just a bit north, to the edge of the East Village. Erik knows he can walk home from here without issue, though he has to give Charles credit for hauling a toddler this distance in search of medicine.

By the time they stop, Charles’ son is completely out, his little body limp, his mouth open. Erik doesn’t even pause to ask permission as they get out of the Uber, he simply lifts the toddler out of Charles’ arms to ease his burden of getting out of the car, and then he doesn’t let go. Charles gives him one look, one moment where he appears like he might open his mouth and protest, but then he shakes his head and climbs the stairs.

Charles lives in a third story walk-up, yet another surprise. The building is older, historic even, but clean and well maintained. Charles stops in front of the door at the end of the hall, and slots his key into the lock.

Erik barely has a moment to wonder what new surprises will be behind the door, before Charles steps through and Erik follows.

__

* * *

Erik is still in his apartment.

Charles can’t quite say why he’s still here - most people would have left ages ago - and he can’t decide if he’s thankful to still have him here, or anxious for him to leave.

Davey is asleep. The whole apartment is quiet. And as Charles steps into the open living area, he spots Erik in the kitchen, putting a kettle onto the stove.

“You’re sure you’re not secretly British?” Charles pipes up, tired but still trying.

These past few hours are the most civil interaction they’ve ever had. Charles finds he wants to hold onto it, more than he could have imagined.

“Definitely not British.” Erik replies with a shrug. “But my mother taught me the value of a hot drink after a long day.”

“Send her my thanks.” Charles says, sincerely. “The cupboard to your left houses my tea and cups.”

Erik turns and opens the cupboard, arching an eyebrow at Charles over his shoulder when he sees just how many boxes, tins and bags of tea are stored inside. Charles stands his ground, refusing to explain himself, and Erik settles on taking down a box of Earl Grey and two cups.

“How old is your son?” Erik asks.

“He’ll be three next month.”

“It’s just the two of you?”

“Yes.” Charles nods. “Just us.”

“He’s small for his age.” Erik’s voice is soft, but he’s frowning with concern.

“He’s always been small and prone to illness, unfortunately. He was premature; it was a rough start. He’s been doing better recently - this flu took me by surprise. I wasn’t prepared, which I should have been.” Charles shakes his head at his own poor planning.

“Your world revolves around him, that’s clear, even after seeing you with him just for these few hours. You’re a good father, Charles.”

Charles doesn’t know what to say to that, it’s such a shock to hear something so complimentary, so kind, come out of Erik’s mouth and directed only toward him. And the words themselves… it was so seldom that anyone had anything positive to say about his parenthood.

“I… thank you.” Charles stutters out. “And thank you for your assistance tonight. I don’t know what I would have done without it. You saved us tonight and you have my sincere gratitude.”

“I didn’t save you.” Erik retorts. “I helped a bit.”

“You’re full of surprises tonight.” Charles chuckled lightly. “You’ve been thoughtful, understanding, patient, and now modest. If you pull out another new character trait, I just might think you’ve been replaced by a clone, or aliens.”

“Perhaps I’m an android who’s recently been corrupted by a virus.” Erik smirks.

“Unlikely.” Charles smiles. “An android wouldn’t be as perpetually annoyed as you are. You’re far too emotional.”

“That’s not something I hear often.”

“Perhaps others are fooled by your cool exterior, but I see what’s underneath: the churning mess of feelings you tamp down. I was raised by a cold English mother, there is nothing I know better than emotional repression - stiff upper lip and all that.” Charles shakes his head and smiles sadly.

“Your family is rich.”

“Comfortably well-off is how my mother would describe it.” Charles smirks, though it’s been ages since he found any humour in his mother’s refusal to speak about her wealth, while simultaneously holding it over everyone she meets.

“And you live in a three storey walk-up.”

Charles smiles fondly at Erik’s blunt comments. Even after all the shocks of this evening, the surprising kindness Erik demonstrated time and time again, under it all he is still Erik.

“I do.” Charles says, with no sense of shame. “Apparently having a child out of wedlock is a misstep that cannot be forgiven or overlooked. But,” Charles gestures to his small but comfortable living space, “as you can see, I am fully capable of providing for myself and Davey without the luxuries of my family’s wealth.”

The whistle of the kettle cuts off any further conversation. Charles is happy to dissolve into silence for a few moments, savoring the scent of freshly brewed tea, the heat of the cup in his hand, the comfort of the ritual, before he leads Erik to the couch in the living room.

“I owe you an apology for my behaviour during the quiz against the Quizmasters.” Charles begins. “It was childish of me to egg you on all night. There’s simply something about you that needles me and I reacted very poorly.”

“You needle me too.” Erik answers. “We both acted like children.”

“Worse than many of my students.” Charles admits, with a wan smile.

“You teach?” 

“I do.” 

“Are you a professor?”

Charles feels his stomach flip slightly, discomfort churning, but he pushes past it. “High school teacher.”

“High school?” Erik arches a brow and Charles shifts his position on the couch.

“Yes. I’m at one of the many private schools in Manhattan. I teach science.”

Erik smiles, his teeth flashing and then, much to Charles’ surprise, his body starts to shake with laughter.

“Science.” Erik finally says. “You teach science. I would have pegged you as some sort of media arts teacher.”

“Because of my extensive pop culture knowledge?” Charles smirks and Erik nods. “I have my students to thank for that - they are forever gossiping about celebrities, singing songs, and using social media. I was forced to keep up, or be hopelessly left behind.”

“You have a talent for fitting in.” 

“And you have a talent for being yourself, regardless of what others may think.” Charles smiles. “Something I very much appreciate about you, my friend.”

“Is that what we are, friends?” Erik arches a brow, half hiding his face behind his cup.

“I should think so.” Charles assures him. “We’ve had our differences, I’d never argue that, but look at us now, having tea and civil conversation.”

Charles attempts a smile, but is interrupted by a yawn. The weariness of the day hitting him suddenly and with strength.

“Then as a friend, I should leave you to sleep.”

Erik stands and Charles stumbles to follow him, his body heavy with fatigue, but his mind and years of instilled manners driving him forward.

It’s possible he says the right things, the polite things, as Erik leaves, though he can’t be sure. He’s far too muddled to work through it at the moment. He trips over his own feet more than once on his way to the bedroom, cursing himself when he has to go back down the hall to the living room to grab the baby monitor.

Somehow he makes it to his room and collapses on the bed. His last thought before he falls into a fitful sleep is that Erik Lehnsherr is devastatingly attractive when he lets his heart shine through.

* * *

“Mama, how many buns did you make?” Erik asks, looking through his mother’s fridge.

“I made scones.” Edie answers, coming up behind him. “Two batches: a savoury and a sweet. You said your friend was British and I thought he would like a taste of home.”

Erik stands, kissing his mother on the cheek. “Thank you, Mama.”

“Your friend can use the help. I know what it’s like to be alone with a sick child.”

“Mama…” Erik begins, but Edie waves a hand to stop him.

“I am not complaining, I simply understand.” Edie turns and hands him two containers of scones. “Now you go. The poor man must be exhausted by now.”

Erik takes his mother’s words to heart, moving quickly, packing up the food and hurrying out the door after another heartfelt word of thanks. Balancing the food while riding the subway is a bit awkward, but as a seasoned New Yorker, Erik knows how to find space for himself and elbow his way through a crowd.

Arms full, he has to gently tap on Charles’ door with his foot. And then wait. And wait.

The debate about whether to leave or stay is bouncing around in his mind when Charles finally opens the door. He looks like he’s been run over by a transport truck; his hair is sticking up, he has giant bags under his eyes, and at least seven different stains on his shirt. Erik can hear the sound of crying in the background and it sounds terrifyingly hysterical.

“You’re here.” Charles says, his voice almost drunk with relief. “Thank goodness. I need someone to help me get Davey into his pajamas.”

“You want me to help you?” Erik asks, embarrassed by the rising panic in his voice.

“Yes, yes. Put the food in the kitchen and come with me.” Charles instructs, pulling Erik by the hand down the hall.

Erik suppresses a shiver as the screams grow louder. 

When they get into the back room, a colourful cornucopia that looks like a tornado has run through it. Erik’s first instinct is to leave, but Charles moves far too quickly, scooping up his son and depositing him in Erik’s arms.

“I have to go grab some clean clothes. Just hold him for a moment until I get back.” 

Erik watches helplessly as Charles runs out the door.

He looks down at the crying toddler in his arms and Davey looks back, his overly large blue eyes round and full of tears. He’s quiet, likely from the shock of being placed in a stranger’s arms, but his lower lip is trembling. He looks so much like Charles, a very very young Charles, Erik can’t help but feel his heart clench.

Davey takes a tremulous breath and Erik feels he is seconds away from another round of tears. He does the only thing he can think of: he starts walking, a rolling gait combined with a gentle up and down movement of his arms, and then, as softly as he can, he sings.

* * *

Charles digs through the pile of laundry in the closet and prays he finds something Davey can wear. He hasn’t had a chance to wash anything in the last week and Davey has thrown up on at least half of his wardrobe in the past two days alone.

Finally, he lands on something that will work - it’s a t-shirt and shorts and Charles suspects Davey might have outgrown them slightly, but they’ll have to do.

He runs back to the room, his mind full of concern for Erik and Davey, alone together. What he finds when he reaches the door stops him in his tracks.

_Oh._

Charles bites his lip to keep quiet and watch; just a moment longer. 

It is odd to admit he never knew how much he’d wanted this; how much it means to see his son, calm and sleepy, in another man’s arms. To see Davey and Erik, wrapped together, an image of caring and trust made Charles’ eyes swell with tears.

For that moment, Charles allows himself to imagine a world where he’s not alone. A world where he can depend on someone else, someone strong and stoic, let loving, like Erik, who can raise Davey with him. It’s a beautiful idea; but it’s nothing more than a fantasy.

Charles mentally shakes himself from his revery and moves forward. He touches Erik lightly on the back to announce himself. Erik turns, his soft singing stops.

“He’s almost asleep.” Charles whispers. “Let’s see if I can get him down.”

Charles slips his arms around Davey, his hands brushing up against Erik’s chest, bringing them closer than they have ever been before. He forces himself to focus on the task at hand: placing his son in bed as gently as possible, wrapping him in extra blankets instead of waking him to try and dress him, touching his forehead and checking, just one more time, that Davey was not feverish.

When Charles finally does turn around, Erik is no longer in the room.

Charles lets himself have a moment, alone with his emotions. His chest aches from holding himself together, but he works to shore himself up again. The image of Erik in his home sticks with him though and he allows a few tears to fall. A small release, before sucking in a deep breath and composing himself.

He doesn’t have Erik, and he never will. He’s certainly done enough to ruin even a slightest possibility of romance between the two of them with his previous antagonistic and childish behaviour. There is an attraction between them, he can’t deny that. But a man like Erik, someone so handsome, so competent, is not going to saddle himself with a mere high school teacher with a sick toddler.

As he steps into the living area and sees Erik in the kitchen, dishing up bowls of soup, he puts on his best smile and goes through a polite routine of thank yous, followed quickly by sincere compliments, since Erik’s cooking is sublime. 

The evening wears on, Charles calms down, and Erik stays. They sit on the couch and Charles coaxes Erik into watching a classic episode of ‘The Big Fat Quiz of the Year.’ Erik spends most the episode answering all the questions correctly and frowning at the sheer variety of inappropriate answers, while Charles giggles and makes quips on his own.

“Is this what you thought our Pub Quiz league was going to be like?” Erik questions halfway through the show.

“Yes.” Charles answers, keeping his face serious for a good half second, before laughter escapes him.

“It would explain some things.” Erik grumbles, leaning back into his corner of the couch.

“Oh, come now, Erik. You must admit: I am a good player.” Charles pokes Erik’s side with his toe, feeling inexplicably fond of the way Erik brings out his childish behaviour in him. “I do have an extensive knowledge base. Admit it.”

Erik winces as Charles pokes him again. “You have an extensive knowledge base.”

“That is a true, genuine admission, right? Not given under duress?” Charles grins, pulling his feet away from Erik and raising his eyebrows expectantly.

“Yes.” Charles feels the power of Erik’s words as Erik meets his gaze. “You are a man full of hidden depths.”

“As are you, my friend.” 

They are mostly silent through the rest of the show. Sleep tugs at Charles’ eyes, but he forces himself to stay awake, cherishing every time Erik’s lips curl into a smile - the man appreciates Richard Ayoade, he clearly has a sense of humour.

By the time the show is over and they’ve cleared the dishes away, it’s dark and snowing.

“Stay.” Charles offers, and then when Erik opens his mouth to protest, he insists. “It’s dreadful out there: stay.”

As Erik uses the bathroom, Charles rushes around, setting up his bed for his unexpected guest, and tossing some blankets on the couch for himself.

Erik must be tired as well because he gives only at half hearted protest to taking the bedroom, and buys Charles’ lie that he has a spare bed to sleep on (he could technically sleep with Davey, but the little lad squirms and rolls so vigorously in his sleep, Charles has long ago given the boy his space).

Lying down on his lumpy couch, Charles sighs and shifts until he finds something akin to a comfortable spot.

Friendship. 

After tonight, it feels like friendship with Erik is possible. And friendship might not be romance. It might not be a committed, loving partner, someone to share his life, his son, his troubles, and his heart with, but it was something.

It was something more than anyone from his old life had given him since Davey had come along. Since he had shown himself to be fallible. Since he has fallen from the good graces and deep pockets of his family.

Charles would take friendship, and he would treasure it.

* * *

Nothing and everything changes after that night.

Charles’ son recovers. In fact, the very next morning after he pouts and whines through breakfast, he seems to turn into a brand new child, running around the apartment showing Erik what feels like every toy he owns. The child’s pure trust; the way he crawls into Erik’s lap and cuddles in, his joyful squeals when Erik picks up a toy and plays with him, it settles in Erik’s chest and warms him from the inside out.

The changes do not stay inside Charles’ apartment, either.

Charles still smiles and jokes too much at Pub Quiz nights, except sometimes, even Erik finds himself smiling along. Moira teases him about his newfound ‘emotional range’ and Erik takes it with little more than an arched brow in response. Charles also starts talking openly about Davey, and at first Erik can tell the others are surprised Charles is a father, but they accept it quickly. Charles' love for his son is evident whenever he speaks of him.

It’s true though; Erik finds himself spending more time sitting with his teammates before a match, listening and chatting. Charles and Moira always find a way to fill the time, often with lively debate on topical issues. In the past, Erik would have taken over the discussion with talk of strategy for the upcoming quiz, but he discovers that the natural conversation intrigues him. It doesn’t hurt that current events are almost always a topic in any quiz night and Erik believes the pre-game conversations keep the team fresh.

Erik and Charles almost make it through two full quiz nights before they argue again.

“You’re not buying our opposition drinks, are you?” Erik stands, arms crossed, looking down at Charles who is perched at the bar, a coy, flirtatious smile on his face, that until moments before had been pointed right at the very rugged and handsome bartender.

“I am indeed.” Charles continues to smile, blithely ignoring Erik’s judging glare.

“You are aware they are our opponents?”

“The fact is never far from my mind.” Charles jumps down from his seat, winking at Erik and walking over to their opposing team’s table.

Erik fumes. He takes Charles’ vacated seat and places his elbows on the bar. 

When the plaid wearing bar man asks if he wants a drink, he growls out a ‘no’, far too distracted by the lingering heat on the chair to formulate more words.

Erik is so distracted by thoughts of Charles flirting with the bartender and cheerfully making friends with the enemy, that he struggles when the quiz begins and answers two questions in a row incorrectly. Even Azazel, a man who was rarely phased, turns to give Erik a judgemental look.

“Do you know why I buy our opponents drinks?”

Erik wants to ignore Charles’ comment. He wants to ignore the way Charles’ scent tugs at him, compelling him to turn around and face his team mate.

“Why?” Erik mutters, giving Charles the quickest glance he possibly can.

“Because,” Erik holds in a shiver when he feels Charles’ breath hit his ear, “I also keep statistics of our matches.”

That gets Erik’s attention - of course it does. He turns part way, giving Charles more of his attention.

Charles smiles and continues. “I happen to keep track of how drinking affects our opponents. This team - lightweights. And I pre-ordered them a round for the half-time break”

Erik can’t help but smile as Charles winks.

He relaxes after that, answering the next three questions with a confident clarity: ‘What is the capital of Fiji? (Suva, of course), ‘When was steel invented’ (the 1850s), and easiest of all ‘What was the name of Wagner’s first opera (Die Feen - the man may have been an anti-semite, but Erik knew his opera).

Erik very much enjoys watching their opponents fall apart after the short intermission. Charles may have bought them another round, but they absolutely screw themselves over by also getting two rounds of shots. They are so drunk they can’t answer anything right - not even easy soft ball questions like: ‘Name three democratic presidential candidates from the 2019 presidential race’.

Walking to the subway after the win, Charles at his side, Erik grins, letting his teeth show.

“You should have revealed your strategy to me earlier.” He comments, still smiling.

“I thought it an interesting, but silly endeavour, but it seems to have paid dividends tonight. If you have time to drop by my apartment tomorrow night, we can add it to your spreadsheet and I can make you my famous Victoria Sponge - I have little talent as a chef, but my baking is divine.”

Erik can’t resist Charles’ inviting smile.

“I’ll be there.”

* * *

Charles is a smart man, an excellent father, a tremendous baker, and so breathtakingly beautiful when he throws his head back and laughs, Erik almost chokes on his cake.

It’s unfair, but Erik never wants it to end.

The night at Charles’ place, with cake and laughter, bustling with activity and noise as Davey keeps them all busy with toys and stories, feels unexpectedly right. 

And it keeps happening again and again.

Erik finds himself at Charles’ home drawing pictures on the floor with Davey as Charles makes delicious cupcakes and yet somehow cooks lumpy, barely edible macaroni and cheese. He laughs, filled with surprised delight, when Charles emerges from the bathroom one night, completely soaked after giving Davey a bath with bits of bubbles stuck in his hair. He looks forward to the last hours of the evening, when Davey is asleep and he and Charles sit on the couch and debate politics, art, music, and everything in between.

It doesn’t take long for other people in Erik’s life to notice something has changed.

Moira gives him suspicious looks during their next Pub Quiz night and then pulls him aside to ask him if he and Charles are dating. Erik immediately denies her assumption, but Moira arches a brow.

“Maybe you should be.” She suggests, before turning and leaving Erik standing, feeling stunned.

His mother gives him long looks, sly smiles, and continues baking more scones for him to take to his new ‘friend’. Erik is impressed that she lasts two weeks before she starts nagging him for details about his ‘friend’ and insisting that Erik bring him over for dinner.

Erik lasts a whole month before he caves to his mother’s demands. To be fair, some of his resistance came from the fact that Charles’ son has caught two more colds, and became so ill near the end of January that Erik visited them both in the hospital with another batch of soup and scones. It had worried him, seeing little Davey tucked into the hospital, looking so small and fragile. Charles’ tired face, complete with dark circles under his eyes, did nothing to settle him down.

“I can’t quite understand how we ended up here.” Charles mutters, his eyes glued to his son. “We came in on the weekend. Davey had a bit of a cough but I thought he’d just caught another cold and he seemed to be getting over it. On Sunday he woke up crying and he just wouldn’t stop. We came in, they spoke to me and then they x-rayed his lungs and said he had pneumonia.” Charles’ head turns, finally meeting Erik’s gaze. “They have to stick them in this ridiculous contraption for the x-ray - toddlers would hardly stay still otherwise. They looked like stuffed sausage. You can’t stay in with them; you just stand in the waiting area and listen to them cry.”

“That must have been torture.” 

“It didn’t take long.” Charles shrugs, but he takes a shaky breath before he continues and Erik knows he’s hiding his fear. “We got some antibiotics and went home. Davey seemed fine: he stopped crying, he was laughing and playing… and then he… he couldn’t breath. I have never felt more panicked in all my life.”

Charles buries his head in his hands and Erik somehow knows what to do, he wouldn’t usually, emotional outburst like this normally make him turn around and walk the other way, but today he reaches out and places his hand on top of Charles’ own and squeezes, gentle but sure.

“He’s a strong kid, he might need a little extra help right now, but if he’s as stubborn as his father, and I think I know that he is, he’s going to be just fine.”

Charles lifts his head slightly and chuckles lightly.

“I’m stubborn? Me?”

Erik feels his lips twitching slightly at Charles’ incredulous look. “You put up with me, you must be stubborn.” Erik feels his heart beat faster when Charles’ face breaks into a genuine smile and that feeling, that giddy sensation in his gut propels him forward. “When Davey recovers - which he will - my mother would like to have you over for dinner.”

“You’re mother who bakes the scones?”

“I only have the one mother.” Erik answers, straight faced.

Charles laughs and Erik’s stomach does a flip.

“We would be delighted to come for dinner.”

* * *

Charles stares at the floor and wonders if it might be possible for he and Davey to magically transport away from the disaster they’ve caused in Edie Lehnsherr’s dining room. Unfortunately, Charles does not have special powers, both he and Davey are still in Erik’s mother’s house, and a giant puddle of grape juice is sinking into Mrs. Lehnsherr’s otherwise pristine beige carpet.

“I am so sorry.” Charles says again, for what must be the tenth time. “Do you have something… I’m sure I could clean it… or maybe hire someone…”

“Sit, sit.” Edie ushers him to a chair and motions at Erik, who scoops Davey up with ease, taking the juice covered toddler off to what Charles can only hope is the bathroom. “These things happen, it is what toddlers do - I know. I may be an old woman, but I am a mother still.”

Charles looks up at Edie, struck by the gentle smile on her face, her understanding, her acceptance. There was so much warmth in her face, something Charles’ life has always been severely lacking.

Charles opens his mouth, compelled to say something, when he hears water running and Davey’s excited squeals coming from down the hall.

“I should go help him.” Charles says, moving to get up.

“No, stay. Sit.” Edie insists. “It is hard what you’ve been doing: raising a son, dealing with a sick child, being alone. But meeting you and your son has been good for Erik.” Edie pauses and Charles hears laughter floating down from the hallway, Davey’s high pitched giggle and Erik’s deeper chuckles. “I have never seen him like this; opening himself up, smiling, letting himself be seen. I wanted to have you come over to meet you, and your son, but I also wanted to thank you. Thank you for making my Erik so happy.”

“He’s a wonderful man, Mrs. Lehnsherr. I’m very glad to call him my friend. The care he has shown to my son… words cannot express how much that means to me, to us. Perhaps we started off on the wrong foot, all those months ago, but we’ve both taken the time to get to know each other now, and that effort has been more than worth it.”

“He needs time, my boy. And someone who doesn’t balk at the first sign of trouble.”

“Are you saying Erik has always been a troublemaker?” Charles fights to contain a smile.

“I would never say such a thing.” Edie replies. “My Erik does not cause trouble, but trouble does seem to find him and when it does, I am always there to lift him back up again should he need it.”

“I believe you may be the best mother in the universe, Mrs. Lehnsherr.”

* * *

Erik watches Charles, trying to be casual, but struggling to hide his worry. Maybe he shouldn’t have invited Charles and Davey over to his mother’s house so soon after Davey’s illness. Charles had been nervous all night, Erik had seen the tension in his shoulders from the moment Charles had stepped through the door. He hadn’t relaxed for a moment during dinner, and then, Davey had spilled his juice. Erik had thought for a moment Charles was going to grab his son and run out of the house. Thankfully, his mother had worked her magic and when Erik had emerged from the bathroom with Davey, Charles had seemed more settled.

Now though, even though Charles claims both he and Davey enjoyed their time at the Lehnsherr household last week and that they slept in this morning, Charles looks exhausted. 

Erik has been over for only a few hours, making pancakes with Charles for brunch. Now, Davey is sitting on the floor, playing relatively quietly with blocks as a Youtube video of children’s songs plays in the background. Charles has his head leaning against the arm of the couch, eyes closed, Erik thinks he’s sleeping but every few minutes his body shakes and Erik’s worry grows.

After another twenty minutes, he can’t stand it; he reaches over and puts a hand on Charles’ forehead. Erik pulls his hand back quickly at the heat and clamminess he finds there.

He has his phone out in an instant: “Mamma, can you take care of Davey? Charles is sick.”

“Of course, bubbelah. I’ll get Mr. Schwartz to drive me over right away.”

Erik spends the next half an hour packing things for Davey in a bright red Mickey Mouse suitcase he finds in the boy’s closet. He throws in clothes, toys, books, Davey’s sippy cups, and a fluffy hooded towel that looks like a frog. He writes down Charles’ phone number for his mother, as well the number for Davey’s doctor - just in case.

Once he’s almost certain he has everything Davey will need for a few days with his mother, Erik begins the search for cold and flu medicine. Charles has every type of medicine an infant or child might need, but his supply for adults is sadly lacking. Erik finds himself ordering an assortment of items from the closest drug store for delivery.

By the time his mother arrives to pick up Davey, who is nothing but excited to go on an adventure with the woman who bakes his favourite scones, Charles is moaning on the couch. Erik scrambles around wetting a face cloth and wiping Charles’ brow, which causes him to mutter unintelligibly.

“Charles?” Erik asks. “Charles, we should really get you into bed.”

Charles’ eyes cracked open, his nose wrinkling in confusion. “Are you trying to seduce me?”

“For fuck’s sake Charles, you’re sick. I’m trying to get you to rest on a bed, not on a couch where you’ll get a crick in your neck.”

“Did you just swear at me?” Charles asks, still completely missing the point.

“Charles: you are burning up. You need to take some medicine and get to bed.” Erik commands.

“Not sick.” Charles shakes his head. “Have to take care of Davey… what time is it? He should be in bed -”

“I sent Davey to my mother’s.” Erik interrupts. “I didn’t want him to catch what you have, what with how often he’s been sick lately.”

“You sent my son away?” Charles scrambles up surprisingly quickly for a man who was barely conscious a moment ago. “You can’t just send my son away! You didn’t even ask me, you bastard!”

“You were out cold!” Erik protests, following Charles as he stumbles toward the door, trying to put his shoes on, but unable to keep his balance and ending up on the floor. “I couldn’t ask you! And you don’t want him to stay here and catch whatever you have, I know you don’t. Look at you, you can barely stand. Just let me get you to bed.” Erik tugs on Charles’ arm, pulling him up. “I promise, as soon as you lie down and take some medication I will call my mother; you can talk to her, she could put Davey on the phone, whatever you need so you know he’s fine. I packed for him, you know: clothes, books, toys, everything. He was excited to go with my mom - not a single tear was shed.”

“Pinky swear?” Charles says with complete sincerity, little finger held out.

“I am a grown man, I am not pinky swearing.” Erik mutters. “Now move your ass to the bedroom.”

“You know,” Charles begins, as Erik wraps an arm around him as his footsteps start to waver, “in any other circumstance I would say that was kinky.”

“You might be delirious.” Erik declares. “I am definitely putting you to bed and filling you with Nyquil.”

“That was less kinky.”

“You are impossible.”

“I thought I was ill and delirious?” Charles protests with what Erik can only assume is a great deal of fake offence.

“You’re all three: impossible, delirious and ill.” Erik drops Charles rather unceremoniously on his bed. “Wait here. There are meds being delivered any minute and you will take them; without protest or innuendo.”

“Where is the fun in that?” Charles replies halfheartedly, already snuggling himself into his pillow.

“Don’t fall asleep.” Erik orders.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Charles snorts, apparently amused at his own pun.

Erik gives the man one last hard look, before turning on his heel and walking back out to the wait by the front door. Charles may be ridiculous, but surely taking care of one sick man can’t get any worse than this.

* * *

Charles is aware he is sick. He is aware that Erik is caring for him and Davey isn’t at home. He even remembers at least one Facetime call with Davey and Mrs. Lehnsherr. But other things… they all start to blur and blend, until he’s not quite sure what is real and what’s a dream.

Surely Erik staying with him all night long, wiping his forehead and humming softly had been a dream. 

Still, the man has shown such tenderness that even in the midst of delirious illness, Charles feels like he’s falling over the edge of attraction to love.

When has anyone ever cared for him like this? His mother would never stoop to menial and off putting tasks such as giving him medication, checking his temperature, or coaxing him to change his clothes. The staff did distasteful things like that. Yet, Erik did all that and more. 

Over the years at home, in the sprawling and cold mansion of a house he’d grown up in, Charles had learned to hide his any illness, any weakness. He pushed himself through, put on a brave face, stiff upper lip; he always acted the part of the well behaved young man. He learned to take care of himself in private, which was exactly what his instinct had been this time around as well. Taking care of one’s self was much harder when you have a child to care for; or in this instance a stubborn friend.

Charles was unfortunately quite certain that a great many moments he would have preferred to be private and unknown, hadn’t been. Such as the multiple times he’d emptied the contents of his stomach into a bucket beside his bed. Or when his body had been raging with heat, kicking at the blankets and drenching his clothes with sweat.

Erik had been there for that, or at least Charles is pretty sure he had been.

Emerging from his room, his gait still a bit unsteady, Charles runs his hand along the wall to steady himself as he peeks into the living area. Erik is in the kitchen, moving around with the quiet confidence of a man who’s spent quite a bit of time in Charles’ apartment.

“I’ve been nothing but trouble for you, haven’t I, my friend?” Charles says, his voice cracking, his throat dry.

Erik turns with a frown, moving faster than Charles’ brain can quite take in, as he starts to slip down the wall. Erik is there before Charles completely loses himself, his long arms wrapping around Charles’ torso and guiding him to the couch.

“You still need rest.” Erik is still frowning at him and Charles wonders if he even spoke out loud earlier, or if he’d imagined that as well. “And water, your voice sounds horrible.”

Apparently he did speak, Charles thinks as he watches Erik head back into the kitchen.

“You might also still be delirious; you’ve been going off on odd rants for the last 24 hours.” Erik says, placing a glass of water in Charles’ hand. 

“I have?” Charles asks, curiously confused.

“Hmm.” Erik nods. “Drink the water, Charles.”

Charles drinks, eyes wide and wondering. Having been so alone for most of his life while ill, he has no idea what he might have said during his bout of the flu.

“Did I say anything… ridiculous?” Charles finally blurts out, unable to bear not knowing.

“You asked about Davey, you talked about your students. You confessed your undying love for Star Trek.” Charles can’t help but smile as Erik grins, and he appreciates the levity.

Erik stops then, taking a drink from his own glass, and Charles settles more comfortably into the couch, no longer so anxious. But then Erik speaks again, and Charles finds his world knocked off balance again.

“You rambled occasionally about your family - and based on what I heard I think you’re better off without them.”

“I… we don’t have much contact.” Charles mutters.

He doesn’t talk about his family. Not at work with his fellow teachers, not to his neighbours in the building, and not at Pub Quiz night. He’s not inclined to open that particular box of horrors to just anyone.

“You asked for ‘Raven’ several times. Is that someone I should call?” Erik asks, shifting and avoiding Charles’ gaze.

“No, no. Raven’s in Asia. She designs clothes and models. I’m lucky to see her a couple times a year.”

“Is she David’s mother?”

“No!” Charles snorts. “No, Raven is my sister. Younger, half-sister to be precise. She’s the only member of the family that still speaks to me.”

“Why?” Erik’s eyes meet his now and Charles can feel Erik’s anger from across the couch.

“You needn’t be upset on my behalf - the relationship was severed through my own actions.” 

“What did you do? What could you possibly have done to make them turn their backs on you? On Davey?”

Charles gives himself a moment to try to formulate his response. For years, he has accepted his exile from the Xavier household. He understands it, even if he doesn’t agree with it. But a man like Erik… a man with a mother like Edie, he couldn’t understand.

“My family isn’t like yours.” Charles begins. “What you and Edie have - I wish my family had a fraction of that love, it’s so accepting, so unconditional. My family, however, is wealthy, and British - despite having made our home here in America. With wealth and status comes expectation. Expectations that I woefully failed to meet.” Charles smiles sardonically. “I wasn’t much better than Davey when I was young; sickly and small, a disappointment from the off. My father died when I was a child, my one champion. My mother remarried shortly afterward. I suddenly had two siblings and was the odd one out, always failing to live up to my step-father’s specific ideals for a young man.”

“What were those ideals?” Erik’s question breaks Charles from his reverie, and he realizes he has been silent for several minutes.

“A facility with sport, strength, bravery; typical masculine traits. I was far too emotional. I liked to read. I played dress up and dolls with Raven. I was short and slight.” Charles sighed. “Perhaps some of those aberrations could have been overlooked, but I was caught kissing the gardener’s son when I was fifteen, and Kurt, my step-father, simply would not forgive me that character flaw.”

“But you had David - surely that must have helped mend things? To show your family you had a child?” 

“You might think it would have made a difference. I’m not gay! I sired a child - how very manly of me!” Charles laughs painfully. “Davey’s mother was a fling and she didn’t want to be a mother; she was happy to leave him with me. I wanted Davey, so very much. My family was horrified: I’d had a child out of wedlock, the mother was an occasional drug user from a family with no connections and no money whose only goal was to travel the world.

“They wrote me out of the will and, essentially, dismissed me from the family. I had a small inheritance from my father’s death they couldn’t take away from me, but that was all. I was twenty five, I had a three month old baby, and I had lost my home and my family.”

“What did you do?”

“I quit school. I was studying for my doctorate in genetics at Columbia, but I couldn’t maintain my course load, not with Davey. He was already unwell so often - visits to the hospital and specialists added up quickly. I spent that first year of his life simply treading water, using my inheritance to get us through, doing a little tutoring for work, but nothing else.”

“You were caring for a sick child.” Erik states, and Charles can see the heat in his eyes.

“I was, yes.” He nods. “And he got better. I was able to leave him at daycare without worrying. I got a job teaching. I joined a Pub Quiz league.” Charles smiles. “I finally had something for myself again. But here we are, with me bringing trouble to you. I am -”

“If you apologize to me, Charles, I may just punch you in the face.” Erik growls. “You are not ‘trouble’. You were - are - sick. People get sick and the people that lo-care about them, they look after them. Maybe no one taught you that, but it’s normal, not a burden, not troublesome, it’s just something people do for each other.”

“Are you sure you're not eligible for sainthood?” Charles teases.

“I’m Jewish.”

Charles laughs. “True. I want to thank you, though. I… I am not used to having someone with me when I’m ill. I haven’t been sick in years, and I’m not sure how I would have managed with Davey here when I was in such a state.”

“I debated taking you to the hospital yesterday. You’re fever spiked and you were… you called out a lot.” Erik frowns again. “It’s good Davey wasn’t here to see that.”

“He’s behaving for your mother?” Charles leans forward, worry filling him. “Everything has been okay?”

“He’s been, and I quote ‘a perfect little gentleman’.” Erik replies. “My mother has texted me every few hours with pictures and updates. You’ve only been sick for two days - he’s hardly had time to miss you.”

“Probably thinks it’s all some grand adventure.” Charles says fondly. “I shall send your mother a thank you basket.”

Charles leans back then, suddenly feeling the weight of the effort of opening his past up to someone for the first time in years, and closes his eyes. Just a moment, he just needs a moment.

Charles comes to some time later, feeling like he’s swaying.

“What… what…” He mutters, beyond confused as he watches the wall move past him.

“You passed out on the couch.” Comes Erik’s reply. “I’m taking you to bed, you’re clearly not well enough to be up.”

“Are you carrying me?” Charles blinks, trying to clear the fuzziness in his head.

“Yes.” Erik’s voice is clipped, and he keeps his eyes on the hall ahead of him.

“Goodness, you really are the perfect man.” 

“Excuse me?”

“You’re tall, strikingly handsome, you can make soup from scratch, play with toddlers, and carry around poor sick friends. Surely your mother must be posting ads around to find you an equally perfect Jewish wife.” Charles knows he is babbling, but his flu addled brain cannot seem to stop.

“I’m gay.” 

Erik stops at the side of Charles’ bed and gently sets him down on the bed.

“The perfect Jewish man then.” Charles continues. “You shouldn’t stay here with me a moment longer; not only should you be out there, available for your mother’s matchmaking, and if you stay much longer I’ll have to keep you for myself.” Charles stares into Erik’s eyes, getting lost in the ever changing colour of them, and feeling the creeping sense of sadness he often feels when he thinks too long about Erik. “But I can’t have you, you know that, don’t you? I’d bring you nothing but trouble. Davey and I, we’re a burden no one should be saddled with. Certainly not a man like you. Have I ever told you you are the most handsome man I have ever seen?”

“You’re talking nonsense.” Erik says frowning and not quite meeting Charles eyes. “Go to sleep. You probably won’t remember a thing in the morning.”

* * *

It’s the final quiz night of the season. The grand finale, as it were. Erik’s team, the Factoids, as usual, made the final matchup, having secured the top spot with the most points of any team during the regular season. It is exactly what Erik expected of his team and what he wanted.

Or, it would have been exactly what he’d wanted, if it wasn’t for Charles.

Charles. _Charles._

Charles who makes his stomach flip and his throat close up, silencing the words he wants to say. He’s almost positive he wants to say them, the words, the question. But he can’t seem to stop his palms from sweating, his heart from pounding, or his thoughts from racing. He manages to talk to Charles about normal things; pub quiz questions, Davey, his mother, politics, the weather, anything but what he really wants to say.

He wonders if Charles remembers his delirious rambles from a couple weeks ago. He doesn’t seem to, shows no signs he recalls his words. There have been no more romantic declarations that make Erik’s heart stutter.

Still, he feels there’s something there. He has never met anyone who makes him feel the way Charles makes him feel.

The thing is, if he doesn’t say something now, tonight, well he might not see Charles as often (or worse, at all - Erik tries not to think this is even an option, but it could be) while Pub Quiz League takes a short two month summer break, before starting again in September. A summer without Charles, without Davey, well, Erik prefers not to think about it.

They are friends now, Erik rationalizes, they will see each other. It won’t be the same, though. They won’t have Pub Quiz night, where Charles is always different, more relaxed, more exuberant. His laughter is louder and longer, his jokes are saucier, he flirts outrageously with everyone. Erik hates it. Hates how much he loves it, and he knows he’ll miss every minute of it.

He tears his eyes away from Charles and the smooth pale column of his exposed throat as he throws his head back in laughter, and runs over his spreadsheet on their opponents in his mind.

“My input into the opposition reconnaissance will not be useful tonight.”

Erik holds in a groan as he looks down at Charles, now standing at his side.

“Your famous charm and generosity finally failed?”

“They don’t drink.” Charles sighs.

Erik peeks over at their opposition; a row of young men, early twenties, all wearing white dress shirts tucked into beige pants. They look more clean cut then he would expect from a bunch of college aged guys, and there’s something about them that seems a bit odd.

“They don’t?” Erik looks back at Charles, more than a little disappointed.

“They’re Mormons. Would you like a pamphlet?” Charles smirks as Erik rips the offensive pamphlet into tiny pieces. “Strict ones as well. I ended up buying them a round of cranberry juice.”

“Did your’s have vodka?” Erik grins.

“Unfortunately not.” Charles huffs. “Do you have any useful data? We didn’t get time for our weekly pre-quiz huddle.”

Charles is smiling, and Erik can see it’s genuine. Their typical pre-quiz huddle had been cut short, as Destiny and the moderator, Brad, had brought both teams together to go over the expanded format for the final showdown.

Apparently, previous years finals had been too anticlimactic, and they were stepping it up a notch this year. There were going to have broad categories, and ten rounds of questions, as well as a final bonus round where correct responses were worth a mysterious, but large amount of points which would be revealed late in the game.

Erik was more than a little annoyed, but he held his protests in and let his brooding stare at Destiny and Brad show his disapproval. There is little Erik dislikes more than unexpected, last minute changes.

Now, only moments before the match, Moira and Azazel have joined he and Charles, standing in a tight circle at the edge of the room.

“They’re strong in American-centric history, modern cinema, and geography. Your pop culture knowledge will be an asset, as will our team’s broader world view, and our specific scientific backgrounds.” Erik announces, giving what may be the closest thing to a ‘pep talk’ he is capable of. “The categories chosen will play a factor; one that we can’t control.”

Brad motions for the teams to come forward, cutting any further strategizing short. 

The Factoids line up, facing the opposition, Erik giving the younger men a thorough once over as Destiny does her best to pump up the spectating bar patrons for the upcoming match - not that Erik cares in the least about having an audience.

“Relax.” Charles whispers, leaning closer to him and Erik holds himself rigid in an attempt not to react to the softness of Charles’ hair brushing his chin. 

“You’re stiff as a board. We, collectively, have six more graduate degrees then they do - at minimum. Only the curly haired one with the unfortunate nose had even made it past his bachelor’s. They’re practically children.”

Erik snorts, and Moira gives him a hard look as he tries, unsuccessfully, to cover it with a cough. He can’t help it; only Charles seems to find these things, the little insults and witticisms that make him laugh involuntarily.

Erik composes himself in time for the match to start. The first round goes well, the category is “Notable events of 2018”. The Factoids come out on top, though not with as much of a lead as Erik would have preferred. 

When the second category is announced, Erik curses under his breath. 

“The King James Bible?” Charles repeats, and the moderate nods in confirmation.

“How convenient for our opponents.” Moira mutters.

It was. Though Charles smiles at his teammates and reassuringly spouts facts about Mormonism not being typical Christrianity, things are not looking good. The Factoids is composed of an Orthodox Christian who attends church services performed in Russian, and only on holidays, an atheist, a Jew, and…

“Are you Christian?” Erik asks, looking over at Charles.

“I’m Angelican.” Charles replies automatically. “In name only, really. Can’t remember actually setting foot in a church since my mother remarried.”

“Wonderful.” Erik grinds out.

As expected, the round goes horribly. The Factoids manage only one correct answer and find themselves trailing 35 to 20.

“Whatever the coming categories, we need to obliterate them.” Erik growls out, giving each team member a pointed look. “I am not losing this year’s title because of bible verses.”

Luckily for him, the Factoids are more than up to the challenge and the following categories are more evenly balanced.

“Which King of Scotland later became King of England?” Brad asks.

Charles rings in immediately: “James I.” 

“Why do hurricanes spin one way in the northern hemisphere and the opposite way in the southern hemisphere?"

“The Coriolis effect.” Erik replies.

“Who was the first female supreme court justice?”

Moira’s hand slaps down “Sandra Day O'Connor.”

“What is the name of Utah’s NBA team?”

“The Jazz.” 

Erik manages to contain himself as their opponents sneak in a correct answer here and there. The Factoids are closing the gap, but as they near the ninth round, they are still trailing 95 to 98.

“Round Nine!” Brad shouts, far too happily for Erik’s tastes. “The category this round is: Medical History.”

Erik thinks nothing much about the topic, other than it should be a fair category. No one on his team is a doctor, or a historian, but their knowledge of medical science is sound.

“What was the name of the investigative journalist who was admitted to a mental asylum to write about the true conditions of patients living in such facilities?”

Charles and Moira both hit their bells simultaneously, but Charles differs with a simple bow of his head.

“Nellie Bly.” Moira answers confidently.

“What case before the supreme court of the United States, legalized abortion across the country.”

In a flash, Azazel’s hand rings his bell, much to Erik’s surprise. “Roe v Wade.”

“Who is often referred to as the ‘father of medicine’?”

Erik grimaces as the young man with the unfortunate nose rings in. “Hippocrates.”

“What pandemic struck the globe in the early 20th century?”

“The Spanish flu.” Charles says, after his quick reflexes beat their opponents to their bells.

Erik should be pleased, and a distant part of him is satisfied; they’re nearly tied. But another part of his brain is consumed with thoughts of the flu, and Davey and Charles’ recent bouts of illness. 

What if they get ill again? What if a pandemic sweeps through the country, across the world, just like Bill Gates has been rambling on about for years, and Charles and Davey get sick. Who is going to take care of them? Who is going to make them soup? Who is going to mop Charles’ brow? Who is going to entertain Davey with building blocks and stories while Charles sleeps? What if they get ill and no one tells Erik, and Charles and Davey are in the hospital all alone, for days, with no one to comfort them?

The rest of the round passes in a blur. Erik can’t say what questions were asked, or who answered them. A gentle nudge at his side breaks him out of his stupor.

“Final round. We can do this, Erik.” 

Charles is looking at him, his eyes bright, and still as unbelievably blue as the first time Erik saw them all those months ago.

“Ready to clinch this?” Charles asks.

“Ready.” Erik nods, his voice strained with emotion.

He makes it through the last round. In fact, the last round is in his wheelhouse, with questions on architecture and monuments. Erik manages to answer 7 of the ten questions himself, and the Factoids get all but one of the other questions. They have finally, after ten hard fought rounds, inched their way into the lead. Only the bonus round remains.

“The bonus round is about to begin!” Brad announces, his enthusiasm again making Erik grind his teeth. “It is one question, but is worth twenty points. Given our scores right now, that means whoever responds correctly will win. The catch? Well the answer has more than one component and you have to get all the components correct to get all twenty points.”

The patrons of the bar ooh and aah, some of them even whoop in a ear splitting, highly irritating manner. Erik wishes they would all pass out drunk and leave the quiz teams in peace.

“The topic is for the people, by the people and selected by popular request!”

If he could, Erik would shoot daggers out his eyes at Brad in that moment. They let the patrons of this bar choose the bonus question? They cannot possibly be serious?

“Are you suggesting you let -” “You did what?” “Who exactly chose -” “How many parts are there -”

Erik’s angry response is drowned amongst a chorus of voices from both teams.

“Alright, please.” Brad pleads, arms raised. “Calm down everybody. The final question was voted on by the public over the past few months, but was chosen from a list of approved questions - it is a legitimate, final worthy question. The answer has multiple parts, but the question itself will clearly illustrate what is expected for a complete, full scoring answer.” Brad pauses, giving each team a slow once over. “Now, our fearless leader, Destiny, is going to pass out a whiteboard and pen to each team. You will have the length of the final Jeopardy song to write your answers. Once the song ends, you cannot change what you’ve written. Understood?”

Heads nod around him and Erik joins in, accepting of the rules, but disappointed to be dealing with a question chosen by the court of public opinion.

“The Social Security Agency of the United States keeps track of data on baby names every year and tracks changes over time. Can your team list 5 of the ten most popular names, for both boys and girls, in this country over the last 100 years?”

Erik spends a second staring at Brad as if he’s grown two extra heads. Who would possibly know that?

“Erik.... Erik!” Moira hisses and Erik manages to tear his gaze away and look at his teammates.

“I…” He begins and then snaps his mouth shut; he has nothing to offer.

“Give me the pen.” Charles demands, hand out. “This isn’t as complicated as you might think. I am a father who’s named a baby, I have some experience with the SSA website.”

“Of course!” Moira whispers excitedly.

Erik watches as Charles writes, printing a list of very familiar names in easy to read block letters on their board. The annoying Jeopardy music pounds in Erik’s ears.

“Are we happy? Anyone want to argue with the choices?” 

Erik reads the list and is struck by how bland it is: Mary, Jennifer, Barbara, Susan, Elizabeth, John, James, David, Michael, Robert.

“It looks perfect.” He says, and he gives Charles an honest smile that only widens when Charles smiles back. “Perfect.”

The music stops. Pens are set down. Brad collects the boards.

Erik looks at Charles, at the happiness in his eyes, the curve of his lips, the slight waves of his hair, the freckles on his nose. He never wants to stop looking.

“The final boards - revealed!” Brad shouts far too enthusiastically.

On another day, Erik would be glaring at Brad. On another night, Erik would spend several minutes complaining about Brad’s grating personality. But tonight, he barely hears him. He’s not really listening. He’s not even looking at the boards. He knows they’ve won - how could they not with Charles on their team?

But more than that, he doesn’t care. Winning the Pub Quiz title suddenly doesn’t matter, not even slightly, when compared to the man next to him.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Brad move to the centre of the room and hold a microphone up to his mouth.

“Our winner’s are the Factoids! And that is the final question!”

“I have one more question.” Erik declares, eyes still locked on Charles.

“Wondering about the details of my hidden baby name knowledge?” Charles grins cheekily.

“No.” Erik reaches out, taking Charles’ hand in his, deliberating twining their fingers together.

He enjoys the way his longer, leaner fingers slip between Charles’ boarder ones, the contrast of his tanned skin against Charles’ pale freckled one.

“Erik…” Charles stutters.

Erik looks back up at Charles, giving his hand what he hopes is a reassuring squeeze.

“Just one more question.” He says, knowing he has to act, he has to ask. “Will you go out to dinner with me?”

Erik is hoping Charles won’t laugh at him. He’s hoping he won’t punch him in the face. He’s hoping he’ll say yes.

He is not at all expecting to find himself with an armful of bouncing and beaming Charles, who has thrown his arms around him and is holding Erik’s face between his hands. Erik manages a tentative smile, because all this touching has to be good, before he is once again shocked to his core by the feeling of Charles’ lips on his.

Moira will tell him when she goes for coffee with him next week, that the entire bar erupted into cheers and that Azazel bought a round of drinks for everyone, and even their opponents raise a glass (of cranberry juice) to celebrate their kiss. Moira will tell him Destiny had a pool going, betting on how long it would take before Charles kissed him and she had won $500.

Erik doesn’t care about any of that.

All he cares about is that Charles answered his question. And the answer was ‘yes’.

* * *

**Epilogue**

“Ask me another one! Please? Please?” Davey whines, his voice high and his face eager.

“One more.” Erik answers, using his firmest voice. “Your dad will be home soon and you promised you’d be in bed before then.”

Charles is teaching late tonight. After several years of teaching at the high school, and with the added stability of his relationship with Erik, Charles had gone back to grad school and finished his PhD. He’d been immediately snatched up by Columbia once he graduated for a teaching position - his students adored him and Charles genuinely enjoyed teaching.

Erik happily took over evening parenting duties whenever it was needed.

“Fine.” Davey crosses his arms over his chest. “One more - a good one - then bed.”

“A good one.” Erik agrees and then takes a moment to think, tapping his chin, exaggerating his thinking. “Alright, here you go: Who won the war of 1812?”

“We did! We did!” Davey jumps around, youthful exuberant joy in every wave of his arms. “USA! USA!”

“You might find some Canadians who disagree with you.” Erik counters. “They did burn down the White House.”

“Mrs. Claremont definitely said we won.” Davey protests. “Why would she lie?”

Unable to think of how to counter the incomparable Mrs. Claremont, Davey’s second grade history teacher, Erik concedes. Davey is a bit too young to understand the nuance of historical perspective and the downfalls of the US education system, after all. Erik wonders briefly if Charles might reconsider homeschooling Davey, but shakes himself quickly. That is not his focus tonight.

He gets Davey changed, they read the mandatory two books together, and Erik slips out of the room after giving Davey a lingering kiss on the forehead.

As Erik had hoped, and expected, Davey settles into sleep easily. He’s such a curious and bright child; he always seems to have worn himself out by the end of the day and usually falls to sleep with ease. After all these past five years with Charles, and the last three of which they’ve lived together, like a little family, Erik is no longer worried about being left alone with Davey, about doing the wrong thing. Nor is he irrationally frightened of Davey having an accident or another bout of illness.

“You are such a good father.” His mother says when he, Charles, and Davey visit.

She used to say it to Charles, every visit, and she still does. But now she says it to Erik too, and she smiles with great fondness and pats his cheek. Lately she’s been adding; ‘Now hurry up!’.

Erik hadn’t had a clue what she meant for over a year.

He’d finally figured it out, in his own time, and she had been the first person he had gone to for guidance (he couldn’t turn to Charles after all).

“You see it now?” She’d said.

“Yes, Mama.” Erik had nodded. “You’ll help me?”

“Of course. We’ll go out tomorrow.”

Tonight is the night. Erik is ready and he’s almost certain he’s picked the right moment.

It’s Friday night, and Charles loves Friday night. As Charles puts it: “It’s the cusp of it, Erik. It’s not the week anymore, but it’s not the weekend either - it’s it’s own unique entity. It’s full of relief, anticipation, and possibilities. Anything can happen on a Friday night!”

Erik is a bit nervous, looking over everything to make sure the apartment is clean, and wiping his hands frantically on his pants, when he hears the sound of a key unlocking the front door.

He freezes like a deer in headlights.

Charles stumbles in the door, looking more than a little worse for wear.

“Goodness, what a day.” Charles sighs. “All my graduate students wanted last minute meetings with me today, Hank had an experiment in the lab literally explode in his face, and a complete cad on the subway was harassing a young lady and I had to intervene before he pulled his dick out in front of her. He then complained I was harassing him and I had to give a statement to the police, hence why I am so abysmally late.”

Erik snuck a glance at the clock; Charles was late, he just hadn’t noticed as wrapped up in his own plans and worries as he’d been.

“I’ll make you some tea.” Erik says, heading to the kitchen. “Camomile?” 

“Yes, please.” Charles collapses onto the couch. 

His plans pushed to the back of his mind, Erik spends the next hour focused on Charles. He makes him tea, he massages his shoulders, he offers to find the potential flasher and kick him in the balls, and tells Charles he can hack into his graduate students email accounts and tell them Charles is on vacation for the next two weeks.

Charles relaxes against him, and laughs, kissing him softly.

“I love you.” Charles says, his eyelids drifting closed.

“You’ve had a long day. Let’s go to bed.”

Charles leans into him as they make their way to the bedroom. Once they are under the covers he squirms about until they’re wrapped together, Charles’ nose tucked into his shoulder.

“Goodnight, my love.” Charles whispers sleepily.

Erik feels the brush of Charles’ lips on his neck and smiles into Charles’ hair.

“Goodnight, schatz.”

Not tonight then, Erik thinks as he drifts off to sleep. Maybe tomorrow, or next Friday night. He’s not going to forget, how could he? If anyone asked, he would swear he can feel the metal of the ring through his pillow.

He has one more question to ask Charles, and he’s hoping the answer is yes.


End file.
